


don't cry for me argentina

by thefudge



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 8x06, 8x06 fix it, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Banana Republics, Bodyguard Romance, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-01
Updated: 2019-06-01
Packaged: 2020-04-06 01:16:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19052305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefudge/pseuds/thefudge
Summary: In this light, you don't believe she can die. Jon/Dany (8x06 modern AU)





	don't cry for me argentina

**Author's Note:**

> *throws all my feelings at you*
> 
> (you should also listen/watch this https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K9xyWLjwKDA)

"But don't get the wrong idea, Kid. I love you more than I hate you. My saying what I'm telling you now proves it. I run the risk you'll hate me - and you're all I've got left. But I didn't mean to tell you that last stuff - go that far back. Don't know what made me. What I wanted to say is, I'd like to see you become the greatest success in the world.  But you'd better be on your guard. Because I'll do my damnedest to make you fail. Can't help it. I hate myself. Got to take revenge. On everyone else. Especially you."

\- Eugene O'Neill, _Long Day’s Journey into the Night_

 

 

 

 

 

 

I will return and I will be a million.

\- Eva 'Evita' Peron

 

***

 

The words peal like bells across the teeming plaza.

“You are my dragons!”

The crowd responds with roars of ecstatic pride.

_Dragons! We are dragons!_

The beautiful woman with plum purple eyes and braided silver hair smiles. Warmth and victory make uneven neighbors in that smile. “My dragons! You've breathed _fire_ into this country! No dirt, no grime, no corruption can cling to your shining scales! My dragons, you will spread your wings and fight for liberation!"

The crowd surges forward, arms stretched out towards her, claiming her for their own.

Daenerys takes a step forward, nearing the edge of the balcony.

She wants to lean down and touch their fingers. She wants to let them know she is not afraid of their love. She shares it.

A hand pulls her back in time.

Jon Snow steps half in front of her, forcing her to retreat.

Dany casts him a long look, but he doesn't budge. He looks almost grim in his determination.

He’s there to keep her away from the people’s love. They love her so much they’d tear her limb from limb, just to carry something of her. She would become holy relics.

Jon knows this better than her. She has fomented the crowd, now she must let the waves subside.

Dany plants her hand against his chest. She can’t hear a heartbeat. He’s wearing a thick bullet-proof vest.

“You’ll let me pass,” she says simply, not even arguing really.

Before Jon can grab her, she hops nimbly onto the wooden ledge and jumps over, falling confidently into the people’s arms.

There is a terrifying moment where the bodies drag her down into their midst and the blue of her dress disappears. But it only lasts enough for him to panic briefly.

She emerges unscathed. The people lift her up and hold her above their heads like a vessel.

She rides the wave.

Jon’s breath returns. He stares at the spectacle in disapproval. He was prepared to jump after her. He’s got eyes on the Unsullied posted at the edge of the plaza. They wouldn’t make it in time. He’s the closest.

His fingers twitch for his weapon.

Daenerys laughs as the hands stroke and caress her. She cranes her neck and smiles back at him.

Jon grinds his jaw. All he can see is the sweat-stained fingers, their desperate oily marks on her clothes.

She thinks she’s one of them, exactly because she isn’t. It’s easy for her to take unbridled joy.

He wipes his brow. The sun glints off her silver hair, blinding him.

A few years ago, he might’ve been impressed.

He fights the urge now.

 

 

 

 

The last socialist president was shot in his own home. The blood spread like the many arms of a dying octopus. An envoy shows her the scuffing on the parquet from the violent struggle. Dany nods her head sympathetically.

This won’t happen to her.

She plans on turning this house of death into a museum. She wants the people to have free access to its art collection and many other treasures.

She strokes the fan against the side of her throat pensively. Her skin is cool, despite the heat.

Behind her, Jon Snow is sweating profusely in his gear.

“You could take that vest off, you know. It would be in poor taste to shoot me right here and now.”

The joke falls flat.

Jon walks ahead of her, clearing the area.

He wasn’t made for a country so close to the Equator. He wasn't made for subterfuge. He’s not a protector, at heart. He thinks about her blood spreading purple like her eyes at his feet. He moves his face sideways, as if closing a door on himself.

  


 

 

 

Dany reclines on the chaise longue. She tucks her feet under her. She watches Jon Snow patrol the floor below. He seems restless, always unhappy about something. His gloom makes her wilt too. Tyrion is showing her photos of lorries carrying contraband over the border, but she can barely focus.

She keeps hearing Jon Snow’s depressed shuffle below.

“Why do we need him?” she half-whispers to her adviser. “I have my blood-riders. I have the Unsullied too. I don’t need another silent killer.”

Tyrion makes a face. “You know why.  Our “friends” in the North want you to be properly protected. They think your men don’t have the right training.”

“The honorable training of the secret police, you mean? No, I suppose they don’t.”

“Better to keep a man like that close, no?” Tyrion argues with a wink. “He watches us, we watch him.”

Dany nods. “I understand all that, but must it be _this_ close? He’s insufferable.”

“Someday we’ll be grateful for his lack of charisma. He’s got his uses.”

Dany doubts it. The problem is, he seems too gauche to be an informant. He’s not subtle enough. He doesn’t take care to listen. Most of the times, he is lost in his own weary thoughts. He doesn’t even insist on being present for briefings. Whatever he passes on to his superiors can’t be too valuable. And if he’s a paid assassin he’s a very poor one. There have been ample opportunities to kill her. Most of the times, he tries his hardest to keep her away from danger. Always a faithful statue standing in her way. It doesn’t make sense.

She’s survived so many attempts to destroy her, she’s not afraid of him.

She’s simply annoyed.

And perhaps that’s why he’s here. To annoy her to death.

  


 

 

 

He watches her braid the little peasant girls’ hair. The fountains burble around her, water falling carelessly down marble steps. Dany scoops water in her palms and pours it over their heads. The urchins giggle and hug her bare legs.

Jon snaps a photo with his Nikon.

All she’s missing is a halo.

Beyond the compound, her Unsullied are marching on the streets, cutting down the green-uniformed fascists who’ve tried to pull down her dragon flags.

Some whisper not all the people in the streets are extremists, but it can’t be helped. She told them to stay inside during the violence. Liberation takes work.

She still smells of rose water when the Unsullied help her climb down the wall in full gear.

The people’s white teeth shine through the blood.

She takes the machine gun in her arms, cradles it like a babe, and then raises it to the skies.

Cheers and screams and cheers again.

  
  


 

 

 

There’s a small feast before the cathedral that night. A bonfire too.

The enemy’s banderoles are burned.

Her soldiers carry platters of bread and cheese and fruit.

Dany makes them eat from her hand.

Music streams from the open doors of the cathedral. Searchlights in the sky sway like ballerinas.

Four Dothraki carry the fresh corpse of a horse. The people tell her that the bourgeois ringleader rode around on this purebread.

Dany smiles.

“We’ll give his steed a proper funeral.”

The meat is cooked on spits.

All her "dragons" are invited to sink their teeth.

But the heart - oh, the heart of the horse - belongs to her.

Dany giggles like a child, fingers sticky. She eats the heart, she takes large bites while the people sing and dance around the cathedral.

Blood and gristle dribble down her chin and turn her silver braids pink.

Jon swallows back the bile.

 _She’s a savage_ , he thinks. _But she’s true._

Near dawn, the party comes to a close.

Jon returns to his room with a gnawing hunger. He did not eat a single thing from the feast.

He pins the photo of her by the fountain up against his wall. She is bathing the children. 

He lies down on the bed, struggles with himself for a moment or two.

He takes out his cock.  

He strokes himself to her, to the sweet image of the Mother of Dragons, protector of babes, gun-wielder, horse-eater, savage beauty.

They used to write her up as a more obscene reprise of Eva Peron, sanctified whore.

But he thinks stupidly, _she’s prettier._

Like Evita in bloom.

He strokes faster.

He comes into his hands with a cry.

  


 

 

 

Dany drops the hammer. She presses a finger to her thumb with a hiss.

She’s got a splinter. The skin is purpled.

Missandei flocks to her quickly, asking her if she’s all right.

Dany smiles. “It’s nothing. I’m doing too good a job, it seems.”

She looks up at the wooden scaffolding. She’s come down to oversee the building of her schools. The workers were elated to see her pick up a hammer.

Tyrion claims they’re only here to be photographed in the act, but she is not going back to the city until she’s finished with this one.

A small splinter won’t get in the way.

Missandei rubs the center of her palm. “Let me get it out.”

Jon watches as the young devotee puts Dany’s thumb in her mouth.

Gently. Gently, she sucks.

Her mistress’ purple eyes darken with pleasure.

Jon grinds his jaw. He can’t stand still in this jungle heat.

He walks up to them and pries Missandei away.

Dany turns around.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Jon nods towards the workers. “You shouldn’t give them a show.”

Dany slaps him, once, swiftly.

It rings across the clearing.

Jon lowers his head.

  


 

 

 

She finds him again at the official reception. He’s sulking in a corner, watchful and distant.

He doesn’t look half-bad in the tux if only he’d do something about his hair.

Dany approaches him with an icy smile.

“Let’s not be upset with each other.”

She takes him by the arm rather forcefully. He _must_ dance with her.

Jon’s heart beats a strange tattoo in his chest.

She’s wearing a black and red gown, the colors of her dragon banners. Rubies glint in the hollow of her neck.

When he rests his hand on her back he touches nothing but bare skin.

He wants to draw his hand away, but they’re already dancing.

Dany tries to straighten his bow tie without much success.

She smiles benevolently. The chandeliers glitter above them. 

“I know you’re a country bumpkin, but try to act a bit more graceful.”

Jon looks over her head and tightens his hold on her back.

Dany’s beauty is no less striking tonight, yet it makes him feel angry.

They take turns around the room while the other couples move out of their way.

He’s trying to keep up, but she’s clearly leading. She steps forward, moving his feet out of the way. He has no choice but to step back. To let her dance him into the wall.

Dany says to him, “You’re afraid of me, aren’t you?”   

Jon smiles like a grimace. The bow tie is a garrote.

She leans forward and speaks into his ear. “No, you don’t have to say anything. I like you frightened.”

She leaves him afterwards to find another partner.

He watches her all night, angry and unable to air it, glowering at the way she glides with other men.

  
  
  


 

 

When the first bomb detonates, he forgets his anger. He forgets his name.

He lunges for her.

That’s all he knows.

He covers her with his body.

Even as she struggles against him, he keeps her down.

Mortar crumbles into a powder and whitens his hair.

His lungs burn with smoke. Blood falls into his eyes, the red curtain of a theater dropping on them.

He covers her.

  
  


 

 

(the first time they were introduced at the embassy, he started by telling her what she wanted to hear.

“They told me about you. They said you’re the rare thing. Real gold.”

Dany smiled, confused and flattered and annoyed.

Jon shook his head. “Shouldn't smile. You know what they do with treasure?”

Dany indulged him. “What do they do?”

“Bury it in the ground.”

He hasn't left her side since. He is here to keep her above ground.)

  
  


 

 

He carries her through the safe house and takes her straight to the shower.

She’s still in shell shock.

They are both cadaveric, splashed here and there with red.

He takes a wet towel and wipes her face. She sees only grainy pictures. 

Jon has to tear the sticky gown off her, piece by piece.

He makes her step into the jet of lukewarm water.

Dany turns to him with a doleful stare.

“You should - as well.”

Jon shakes his head. “Later.”

Rivulets of ash trail down her cheeks. She looks like the children she once saved. “Please.”

Jon swallows.

He shrugs off his clothes without any feeling in his hands.

They aren’t naked until the water cleans them.

Dany starts crying with hiccups. She burrows into him.

Jon wraps his arms around her, holds her under the jet.

He presses his cheek to her hair. He kisses the top.

What he’s never understood is that knife-sharp innocence, the way she steps into this role so easily.

Dany lifts up her face. He wants to kiss her, just to wash away the conflict inside him.

He cups her face.

He should have let her die. She was supposed to die.

It would have been easy.

They might kill him for what he’s done.

They _will_ kill him, he realizes.

He grips the side of her face and kisses her.

Dany kisses him back, tangling her fingers in his matted hair.

They twine around each other greedily. They are too bruised for this, but it doesn't matter. Her legs lock against his waist, his hands open her thighs, he enters her quickly, and they both regret it instantly. But they moan together, fuck furtively against the blood-speckled tiles, because regret is a strong aphrodisiac and they need it to last a bit longer before they have to break away.

He holds out inside her, holds out until he can’t take it anymore.

She’s so warm and tight, he burns.

She’s too soft for a tyrant, too cruel for a woman. Dany tugs at his hair, makes him look at her as they both finish.

  


 

 

 

When she wakes up, the room is half in darkness. It’s only his profile blocking the window. It smells like rain and smoke, a lagoon on fire. The wet breeze stirs the black mangrove trees. She inhales, coughing a little.

Jon brings the cigarette to his lips and looks down at her with a soft smile.

Dany knows it’s the one and only time he’ll smile like that, while things are still left unsaid. She should savor it, should let it linger. Should say, “come back to bed”.

But she sinks her hand under the pillow to the edge of the bed, groping for something.

“How can you be smoking?”

He shrugs. “It passes the time.”

Dany rises from the bed, wraps the robe around her still shaking body, and comes over to his side of the window.

She sits opposite him, steals the cigarette from his lip and takes a drag.

They sit in companionable silence. 

“Why didn’t you let me die?”

Jon stills next to her.

“You didn’t set the bombs,” she adds, a little hoarse, exhaling smoke. “I know you didn’t. But you got someone inside who could. This was meant to be my grand exit, wasn’t it?”

He can say nothing. He can only stare at her softly blistered profile. He himself can’t believe she’s still alive.

While he watched her sleep he considered the mad thought that maybe she was the one who saved them both from the explosion, that maybe she _is_ a dragon.

“Or no,” she corrects herself. "Rather my burial. Buried under rubble. That’s what you said. They bury treasure.”

She exhales again, passes him back the cigarette. Jon takes it with shaking fingers.

“So I ask you one more time, why didn’t you let me die?”

Jon feels pinpricks behind his eyes. He doesn’t know who or what he’s grieving.

“I don’t know.”

Dany smiles. “I always thought you were too weak to kill and I am right.”

Jon swallows. He reckons with himself.  “I love you.”

Dany bursts into shocked laughter. Her eyes become wrinkled. He loves that about her, the expansive way she takes joy.

“You _love_ me? Men usually go about it differently. They don’t start with the declaration, they end with it,” she says through laughter.

Jon stares at the small vein throbbing at the juncture of neck and shoulder. Still alive, still alive.

“This _is_ the end. And I love you.”

Dany’s laughter turns into wry contempt. “Is that all you can say?”

Jon wipes his eyes.

“All right. But you didn’t love me all the way in the beginning,” she argues. “You could have let me die so many times.”

“They needed you alive, for a while,” he says ashenly.

“What was my purpose?” she asks, and it sounds particular, yet also universal.  What was ever her purpose? What did she accomplish? What _could_ she have accomplished?

“To keep the country at a standstill.”

Dany sniffs. “I see.”

Jon takes a step closer to her. “You didn’t, though. You did too much. You made it the mob’s rule. Anarchic, short-lived, impossible. You can’t _keep_ doing -  you - you make people do dangerous things.”

His eyes beg her. “You make me want to kill for you. Fight them all for you.”

Dany parts her lips. She lets him touch her cheek.

“I want to give you the whole continent.” His voice is a longing. “I want to raze the world for you. It’s not right. That’s why you have to stop.”

His lips ghost overs hers.

“You can’t stop me,” she whispers into his mouth.

“I have to.”

“Together, then,” she says, when she feels the blade against her belly.

Her own blade sinks into his flesh without remorse.

Quicker than him.

Jon’s eyes widen.

“Together,” he rasps, and returns the favor.

They fall into a kiss, a coda.

  
  


 

 

(Daenerys rises from her seat in the car and spreads her arms wide, silver braids clinking like bells behind her, always bells, always a blessing.

Every village they pass receives her blessing. 

The people cry out her name and chase after the army Jeep long after it's gone.

Jon rides in the seat behind her, watching her part the jungle air.

In this light, you don't believe she can die.) 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Somehow a photo makes it into the press.

It’s rumored that Tyrion Lannister sold it for the right price.

The lovers twined, two extinct swans, drowned in their own blood.

The whole nation cries. The future could have been bright. She could have married the reluctant killer, converted him, made him a true believer. Perhaps she already had. Together they might have been invincible.

Until they weren’t.

They burn on the pyre for days, but their bodies don’t perish. They only smoke a little.

The people cry, _Miracle! Dragons! Dragons!_

A wave of violence is ready to break the dam.

Tyrion orders them to be taken away in the night.

They are thrown into the river instead.

But the legend has already been born. The revolution carries on. New regimes rise and fall.  Tyrion loses his head in one of them.

Brightly-painted icons and veiled figurines of the Mother of Dragons crop up everywhere. They grace every house eave, follow the men into battle, are carried over the fire for protection.

The old women say that at night, if you go down by the river, you can see her white shadow swimming down river, followed faithfully by her darker consort.


End file.
